


(I've) Seen This Trash Can Dream Come True

by novel_concept26



Category: Glee
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-25
Updated: 2011-05-25
Packaged: 2017-11-06 15:37:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/420470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novel_concept26/pseuds/novel_concept26
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They’re going to be stars; he can feel it. It’s only a matter of time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(I've) Seen This Trash Can Dream Come True

Title: (I've) Seen This Trash Can Dream Come True  
Pairing: Kurt Hummel/Rachel Berry friendship  
Rating: PG  
Disclaimer: Nothing owned, no profit gained.  
Spoilers: Through S2.  
Summary: They’re going to be stars; he can feel it. It’s only a matter of time.  
A/N: Title's a misquote from Elton John's "Mona Lisas and Mad Hatters."

It’s hard to wake up in a city like New York without thinking, _Thank God for escaping Ohio._ It’s not even an intentional thought process for him; every morning, without fail, the words just pop into mind. And, truth be told, nothing has ever been more true.

Kurt Hummel has escaped cow-town hell, and it is the best decision he ever made.

If you had told him at sixteen that he would make it out of Lima and spend his formative college years in the Big Apple, he would have smirked and agreed wholeheartedly. If you had told him he would be spending those years rooming with Rachel Berry?

Okay, _that_ might have garnered a chuckle.

But the fact of the matter is, this is a typical Thursday night. He gets home at six-thirty from a full day of classes—Contemporary British Lit, Biology 101, Drama—to find Rachel curled up in the armchair his father loaned them (the apartment they live in is tiny, stuffy, and came with exactly one piece of furniture: a toilet that operated on little more than a whim and a prayer). Three years ago, he would have bitchily backed right out the door again, head wagging, fingers already punching in a text to Mercedes. Tonight, he tosses his bag on the counter and smiles.

“Long day, dear?”

She glances up from her Art History textbook, mouth pulling into a pout. “I sat through three classes in waterlogged leggings and a muddy sweater.”

“Speaking as your unofficial wardrobe consultant, I must advise against that particular fashion decision,” he informs her cheerfully, dropping down on their thrift store futon. She sticks out her tongue.

“Kurt Hummel, I will have know a _taxi sprayed me with_ —“

He holds up a hand, laughing. “Got it. You should have called. I could have brought you a change of clothes.”

Rachel grins, eyes shrewd. “The last time I let you pick my outfit, I almost caused a four-car pile-up. A bus driver ran a red light. Children could have _died_.”

“That’s how you know it was a success,” he replies wisely. She lobs a throw pillow at his head.

This is what life is like for him now, and while it’s not at all what he would have expected—or wanted, really, way back when—it works miraculously well. Their parents help out with rent, which is buffered _not_ by busking on street corners (as was Rachel’s original plan), but rather by his part-time work in a bookstore and her occasional hours at a local diner. School is taxing, but magnificent; it’s so nice to finally be in a place of education where he is not scorned for wearing bedazzled jeans and carting a Marc Jacobs original. Not that New York is Shangri-La or anything of that sort, but he has to be honest: it is _perfect_ compared to home.

And Rachel is actually a pretty fantastic roommate. The six-A.M. musicals that take place in their shower are a bit of a hassle, and sometimes her diva side comes out to play with just a little too much aggression, but in general, he likes this situation a lot. Rachel has, against all odds, become his best friend in the world—especially when Mercedes grew too tangled in her relationship with Sam (adorable, he admits, but frustrating at the time, particularly when his own Romance of the Century with Blaine fizzled out in a show of sparks and glitter). Somehow, by the time McKinley released them from its insult-and-injury clutches, the world was a very different place than New Directions’ humble beginnings.

For one, the It Couple in school was not Quinn Fabray and Finn Hudson, but rather Brittany Pierce and Santana Lopez—the latter of whom took forever to come out, to Kurt’s endless amusement. (Last he heard, the two of them had moved to L.A.; he suspects they’ll be sending out wedding invites any week now.)

For another thing, by graduation, Noah Puckerman was a frequent visitor to the Hummel household—and not for Finn’s sake. Not solely, anyway; Kurt spent the majority of his senior year in the company of his stepbrother, Puck, Mike Chang, and Sam Evans, all of whom (with the possible exception of Sam) would likely have kicked his ass up and down the football field for funsies two years prior. Somehow, once the Blaine bubbles had split, they formed a protective cocoon of their own, and Kurt found himself with a whole team of football players on his side. He likes to think they got a little something out of the arrangement too, given the vast improvements in their collective dress code after that point.

Most importantly, his friendship with Rachel changed everything. She was there to root for him when he moved to Dalton, and just as big a fan when he returned. She loved the things he loved as _much_ as he did, shared his aspirations, made him feel like he was no longer that scared, scrawny kid who sang under his breath when no one was watching. She stood with him on the stage at the Gershwin and belted her heart out, keeping up the way he never thought another person could.

Rachel Berry, for all of her obnoxious, vaguely cretinous behavior in the past, has proven herself to be kind and trustworthy, a true friend. Sometimes, looking at her now, he wonders how he ever failed to see that.

This is, after all, a girl he once threatened to stuff a sock into the mouth of.

Some things are hard to forget.

Luckily for him, Rachel is forgiving above all else. She forgave his thick-headed brother each time Finn screwed up—which was often. She forgave Puck for the daily Slushie facials, and Mercedes for insulting her throughout the first year of glee, and Santana for attempting to punch her on several memorable occasions. She even forgave the likes of Quinn Fabray, who trampled upon her self-esteem with a fervor Kurt can only recall as (humorously enough) religious. Rachel Berry, from his perspective, is the most remarkable human Glee has ever turned out in that respect.

He respects her more than he ever thought possible, and he loves that she is here with him. Not simply because having two people marks down the rent considerably, but also because she is proof of his potential. Rachel can make it, he has no doubt of that, and if she can, so can he. They are the same in so many ways: two losers without a cause for hope in the world, two broken kids accustomed to the world spitting in their faces. Two trainwrecks with dreams too big for small-town Ohio.

And now they’re two university students living in the heart of it all, scraping and scrounging to pay rent and live the dream. Now they dress the way they like without fear of much more than the rogue taxicab. They attend classes without worrying about where the next flavored ice bath will come from. They have _arrived_ —maybe not entirely, but close enough for now.

He peers at her, cheeks rosy with delight when she scrunches up her nose and asks, “I don’t suppose you’ve thought about dinner?” It’s such a basic question, so sickeningly domestic; in past lives, he would have expected the words to fall from his father’s lips, or Mercedes’, or Blaine’s. Not Rachel. Never Rachel.

“I was thinking we could meet Quinn and Tina for sushi,” he replies, shrugging. She makes a face. “Pizza, then?”

“Vegan,” she reminds him. He blows out a breath, mock-indignant.

“So picky.”

Her fingers are already flying across the keypad of her phone, punching in what he knows is Quinn’s long-memorized number. The fact that Quinn, Tina, and Mike found their way to the city was only slightly more surprising than his own deep-seated thirst for the bright lights. If anyone needed a path out of Lima, it was Quinn “So Repressed It Hurts” Fabray, whose self-loathing and anxiety have been greatly tempered by the chill nature of Chang Squared. It’s insane that they have all found themselves in such close quarters, but also bizarrely comforting.

He’s just glad no one else tagged along for the ride. One more Gleek might’ve meant nightly karaoke sessions, which probably would have cut into homework time something fierce. Not that he minds, but Rachel would have an aneurysm by the third week.

This, what they have going, works just fine. He’s making his way through classes with ease, and sooner rather than later, these auditions he keeps nervously strutting his way through are going to pan out. Soon enough, he will be standing on a stage, face warmed by brilliant lights, watching his father’s proud face shine in the crowd. He will stand before this world of promise and hope and prove himself to be the greatest thing Broadway has seen since LuPone and Peters and Chenoweth. It’s coming; he can feel it. Right now, it’s only a matter of patience, waiting for his time to come.

In the meantime, it’s Rachel’s hand on his shoulder, steering him out the door and down the stairs. Rachel’s voice chatters in his ear, waxing poetic on which show they should aim to see next. Rachel’s smile lights up the night, her dreams dancing behind big brown eyes. Kurt smiles, threading his fingers through hers and squeezing.

They’re going to be stars soon, the both of them. Until then, he’s content to stroll the neon streets of the city, on his way to catch a slice with old friends. There’s no way around it: this is one _hell_ of a lot better than small-town Ohio.


End file.
